It's all about the exposure the lens I told her

Winterwynd, afternoon

POSTED: Sat Aug 11, 2018 3:54 pm

500+

OOC: Help him catch butterflies??

IC:


He'd been getting tired of sleepless nights where he couldn't wake up. That easy to reach place he barely remembered before the sun went down and it started again. The mystery his feet solved every time he looked at their colour in the morning, because every night he would wash away the dirt and grime of the day in a little wood bucket. That slice of the confusion could be washed away, but it was never enough to float him the whole picture nice and neat. Never so simple or without complexities, nothing really ever until it was understood. And he wanted that so badly, that clarity, he wanted it so feverishly that he woke tangled in his bedding more and more. From the fever dreams that told him: twist, turn, like some kind of demented night time tango that he could not recall the tune of.

He needed rest, he needed reprieve. Then as the day folded in two, and he saw the dew that soaked the grass and the puddles, when he stepped outside—into that misty world that came after a storm. That was when he suddenly needed butterflies, and so many so fast that he could not control himself.

Mystery had pried open a trunk at the bottom of the stair a few days before the rains hit. Inside was rotted, mouldy mush, shattered glass, and three filthy glass jars. He had gone there, creaked open that rusted lid from a cellar flood from years gone by. Took the jars in his small hands and left with a purpose. To snag wings into hard little cages so he could see the pretty colours and pretend he had pretty colours too. Or something like that, or something less than that, maybe he was just quenching an urge to be cruel to something small even though he loved butterflies dearly. He didn't know and couldn't possibly know, being such a haze to himself, naming himself what he did when he understood how little he understood.

Before he left he tucked a sweet lilac in his hair too, from the rampant garden that surrounded his house on Foxheel. It was his butterfly flower now, it would help him. The butterflies would bow to his butterfly flower, yes they would.


Later, after a walk and a few songs. The scene was set there on the nature-swamped streets that sat near the edge of Winterwynd, his eyes vapid pools of colour, the only thing inside was this wild look. Like everything could happen, or just snap and roll in the blink of an eye. He spotted something white, something green, like seafoam with wings, and he shuffled on over to the roadside bushes all slicked wet. Mystery glanced up quick, to see the faded rainbow stretching behind the church's pointed, glistening top. Colours again, all frivolous and different, and he wanted some in his jar. In his jar, just a small little rainbow streaking around in his jar. ‘Get em get em get em get em get em’

He crept closer, the wet grass licking his legs.
Mystery

Mistfell Vale
Crowstooth
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Daniel
Luperci

Mistfell Vale